


It doesn't matter where we take this road (but someone's gotta go)

by Betweenthepies (Reikiari)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Coming Out, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Somewhat, What happened behind the door in Parse: Part III, because you can't have Kent Parson without angst but i also need him to be happy, the missing years, tw: mentions of overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 09:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6699709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reikiari/pseuds/Betweenthepies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were Zimmermann and Parson. Zimms and Parse. Jack and Kenny. That’s what they were. That’s what Kent always thought they’d always be.</p><p>Kent Parson plays hockey. Along the way, things crash and burn, but Kent learns how to build himself back up and how to let go, albeit with some help. </p><p>He's building up his own narrative again, or something like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It doesn't matter where we take this road (but someone's gotta go)

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, all characters belong to Ngozi. So does some of the dialogue in this fic. 
> 
> Hello! My first fanfiction for this fandom and its a ten thousand word monster.  
> I had Kent Parson feels and I needed to get them out before studying.  
> Jenrose helped me with beta! Big shoutout to them! I'm horrible at tagging, so if you have any suggestions after reading it that's be greatly appreciated.  
> Thank you for taking a look!
> 
> Title [and inspiration] - [Already Gone - Sleeping at Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1FbZvDba6ew)  
>  
> 
> I took some liberty with the timeline - esp about Kent winning the Calder and what his cup years were.  
> Also you may recognise the dialogue from the episode Parse Part 2 in Year 2 - ALL THAT BELONGS TO NGOZI.

_Remember all the things we wanted,_  
Now all the memories they're haunted,  
We were always meant to say goodbye.  
Even with our fists held high,  
It never would have worked out right,  
We were never meant for do or die.

[Already Gone - Sleeping at Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1FbZvDba6ew)

 

_\--------_

_“Hey Zimms.”_

_“What is it, Kenny?”_

_“We’re gonna light up the NHL. We’re gonna get the cup. We’re gonna be the best.”_

_Jack laughs._

_“Of course.”_

\---------

Jack overdoses.

Kent goes to Vegas.

\---------

_“I’m Parson. Kent.”_

_“Chuis- euh- I’m Jack. Zimmermann.”_

_“Cool! Ready to play?”_

_“Of course.”_

_\--------_

Kent pulls the Aces cap off his head and throws it across the room. He wasn’t meant to be dressed in black and white. The black and white was never meant for him. The letters that spelt PARSON in startling white across his back would forever be where ZIMMERMANN was supposed to be. He laughs, dry and humourless.

This was Jack’s. Jack was the first draft pick. Jack was the prodigy. Jack was the legacy.

Jack was the one who was supposed to rise first in that arena, eyes cast downward with a small smile on his face, getting pats on the back from Bad Bob Zimmermann and his Uncle Wayne, getting hugs from his mom, getting swatted on the arm with the promise of a kiss from Kent.

Jack was supposed to join the NHL. Jack was supposed to meet Kent on NHL ice, their play as dynamic as ever, even as rivals. Jack was supposed to win the Calder. Jack was supposed to hoist the cup, drink champagne from it. Jack was supposed to be wearing the cap, the gear, the jersey, blowing records out of the water.

But Jack isn’t.

Jack is lying in a hospital bed. Jack is connected to tubes and machines. Jack is unresponsive, unconscious.

Jack’s body is fighting to survive.

Jack isn’t.

Kent throws up in the bathroom.

\--------

_“Holy shit.”_

_“We… won.”_

_“Fuck yeah! C’mon Zimms, you can celly better than that!”_

_Jack seems to think for a second, then he raises his fist in the air, fingers curled tightly around his stick. Kent smiles and does the same, and soon, although the arena is loud, the ice is silent, as the Rimouski Océanic raised their fists high around their captain._

_\---------_

Kent still talks to Alicia. He knows she sees the texts he sends to Jack’s phone, asking for a response, asking if he’s okay, if he needs help with anything, if he will still play their game, if they will ever be on the ice together ever again. They had wanted this, but they had wanted this together, at least that’s what Kent thought. Apparently, Jack didn’t feel the same.

So Kent talks to Alicia. Jack is recovering well. Still weak and shaken up, but he is healing physically. Kent hates that Jack isn’t just healing as a whole. He talks to Alicia almost every day, and even talks to Bob a couple times. When he talks to Bob, they talk about hockey, how Kent is liking Vegas, how he thinks his rookie season will go. Kent says once that he doesn’t even know whether he’d make the team. “I’ll probably be in the AHL for a year,” he says. Bob laughs, and tells Alicia. Kent hears her laugh too.

Kent calls at the same time every day. He calls the Zimmermanns before he makes his nightly calls with his mom and his sister. They always answer if they’re at home, even if the exchange is only a few sentences long. They will sometimes answer if they’ve gone out. These calls are mostly picked up by Bob, who uses Kent as an excuse to step away from parties and conversations about Jack. There are times where they won’t pick up. That’s when Kent knows they’re with Jack.

They never talk about the draft. They never say “what if Jack had”. They never say “what if Jack hadn’t”. They don’t imagine what Jack would have looked like with a spade on his front and his name in white blocked letters.  

Kent asks one day, “Will Jack put his name in next year?” He doesn’t get an answer.

The headlines the day after he asks scream: “Hockey’s Lost Son off to Rehab”. The papers are already setting up the whole ‘prodigal son’ schtick. It makes him cringe.

\--------------

Jack texts him once.

‘ _Thanks’,_ it says.

Kent’s fingers tap in, ‘ _Anytime’._

[Kent wins the Calder.]

Jack doesn’t text back.

Kent stops calling. 

\--------

_They were roommates._

_“Hey Zimms?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“Um, so Zim- I mean, Jack, is it okay if I uh… you know… kiss y-"_

_“Yeah Kent.”_

_“Cool.”_

_It was perfect._

\---------

Kent wins the Conn Smythe. He also wins the Stanley Cup. He carries the Conn Smythe trophy, large maple leaf and all, and skates back to his team, receiving pats on the head and on the back. Then he watches as the Stanley Cup is carried onto the ice and placed on the table where the Conn Smythe was previously placed. He hears the roar of the home crowd when Bettman calls Aaltonen forward to receive the cup, and wonders how the fans can cheer even louder when the cup finally goes high over Aaltonen’s head. He doesn’t know when the cup gets to him, or when he passes it off. Kent can’t believe that he’s actually done it. He’s won what some players wait years and years to win, what some players wait years and years and never get.

“Yeah Parser!”

He looks over and sees his linemate, Brems, beaming at him, sweaty brown curls spilling out from under the Stanley Cup Champions cap. Brems, who’d returned after a broken collarbone to light it up with Kent on the ice this year. Drafted to the Aces in 2005, Bremner was an amazing player, stood tall at 6’3” and skated as hard as he checked. He was a loud man on the ice, and could force pucks in with a wicked shot. Kent enjoyed playing with him, and they were great together. That was a given, otherwise they wouldn’t have won the cup.

But none of the Aces were Jack, and it had taken Kent a while to look at the back of player taking the face-off without expecting ZIMMERMANN across his back. He still sees it sometimes.

As the team continues to celebrate into the night, Kent can’t stop thinking about how this had been their dream, but now it was only his that was coming true.

\--------

_“Are we keeping this up after the draft? We’ll be in different cities, Kent.”_

_“You’ll go first to the Aces and I’ll go second to the Islanders.”_

_“Those are in different conferences, Kent, and besides, you’ll probably be going to Vegas.”_

_“There’s calling, there’s Skype, there’s so many ways. We’ll make this work, you and me.”_

_“Kenny, I-“_

_“We’ve got this. Now shut up and go to sleep.”_

\---------------

Kent goes to Samwell on a Saturday morning. He’s already planned out his day with the cup. He’s taking it back to Albany, to his hometown rink, where he skated for the first time. It’s cheesy and typical, but it’s only his first cup. He’ll have other chances to be creative with his Cup Day. He arrives at the gates of Samwell University in a rental car, and drives through the campus slowly.

It was Alicia who had told him Jack was staying at Samwell over the summer with his new teammates, but it wasn’t the Zimmermanns who had told him that Jack was going to Samwell to study and play in the NCAA. It had been Jerémie Gagnon, who had played on their line during their time in Rimouski. Gags had gone to Toronto, a two-way contract with the Leafs after the draft, but went back to his hometown of Montreal every summer and coached a Peewee team that his dad ran. Apparently, Jack had joined as an assistant coach for the team after M. Gagnon had reached out to him post-rehab. A year later, Jack had taken his SATs and applied to universities.

Kent had googled Samwell the minute he received that text from Gags, wanting to see the difference between what Jack was going to have and what Jack could have had. The university’s website had welcomed him with pictures of traditional cathedral-like buildings, modern laboratories, a beautiful picture of a lake, and an image of the home rink, Faber. He had looked online for more information about Samwell, and came up with some of the weirdest results he’d ever seen, including a detailed history of their mascot, which was a legitimate well with legs, a list of Samwell’s most beautiful students (one of the guys had a goalie mask on but had really great abs. Kent had appreciated that), and talks about epic parties.

Samwell was an Ivy League school. Jack had always been more studious than him.

Samwell’s hockey team was lesser known. Jack deserved to play somewhere better.

Jack was supposed to be in the NHL. He probably still could have signed. Anyone in their right minds would have taken him.

Kent doesn’t let himself ask why about Jack anymore. He’d already done that too many times. 

He had found the saying a couple clicks later, at the top of an online forum.

  1. _Smith asks: How true is ‘One in four, maybe more”?_



The slew of responses, the majority from Samwell students and alumni, had all confirmed that the saying was true, so Kent’s not surprised that as he drives around the campus, he sees every type of couple anyone could ever imagine. He’d laughed, because if he didn’t play hockey, Samwell would have probably been his top choice solely based on reputation.

The campus is inviting and bright; everything someone Kent’s age would dream to gain from going to university. He hears laughter through the tinted windows and watches people run across the road to get to their friends from behind his sunglasses.

Kent tries not to ask why anymore, but nothing can stop the ‘what-ifs’.

He drives, guided by the signs littered around campus, street names crossed out in order to give way to a student’s more accurate descriptions. And so Kent drives towards Frat Row. He knows that the Samwell Men’s Hockey team lives in a frat house, he’d seen that on the website too. He’s thought about this trip so many times that he knows which house it is without even needing to ask.

The rental car is quickly parked on the side of the road, and Kent walks up to the door, taking in the broken porch light, the dilapidated porch itself, and the undeniable smell of weed. He goes for the doorbell, but he can’t ring what isn’t there. Kent is about to knock when the door is flung open by someone from the inside, who is holding a dead octopus and shaking it by its tentacles. Kent steps aside to avoid the water droplets coming off the dead animal, and the person doesn’t seem to notice him at all.

“God, what the hell! You lacrosse shits are going to get it!” The roar from the house across the road alerts Kent to the residence of the Samwell Men’s Lacrosse team. Chants of “L-A-X, L-A-X” rise into the morning air as the hockey player throws the octopus hard enough for it to land on the road, right in front of Kent’s rental. It is only then that the house resident notices Kent standing off to the side, staring at the octopus in the road. The blond student scans him from head to toe, then makes eye contact with him. “Oh hey.” He points to himself. “Larsen. Kent Parson, right? You looking for someone or did you just think ‘maybe I’ll get a college education in case I get injured?’”

Kent doesn’t know whether he should be surprised, amused, or offended. He goes for the umbrella emotion of annoyed. “Is Zimms here?”

“Jack?” Larsen leans his head into the house, like he would see through walls to see whether Jack was present. “Nah, I think he went to Murder Stop and Shop with Shits. Maybe it was Racist Stop and Shop. Either way he’s not here right now. Try again tomorrow?” Kent just looks at Larsen expectantly, waiting to be let into the house.

“You don’t want in the Haus right now, bro,” says the blonde, scrunching up his face. “It smells like the ocean threw up everywhere on the first floor. _I_ don’t even want in right now."

"I'm sure it’s okay.”

“It’s honestly not. I’d love to give an NHL star a ‘swawesome SMH welcome, but because the ASSHOLES ACROSS THE STREET-” Larsen is interrupted by another round of lacrosse chants before he is allowed to continue. “-dumped the Atlantic ocean into our kitchen and living room, shit’s nasty right now. Might wanna come back after we get all of it cleaned.”

Kent is not a patient man, and he is fully aware of that. The tall NCAA player could either just be really chill, or be preventing him from getting where he wants to be. Either way, Kent wasn’t happy. “Hey man, just let me in.”

“Alright, but don’t ralph.” Larsen moves into the house, shaking his head. Kent walks in, looking around. His freckled nose rises as his face scrunches at the overwhelming stench of dying marine life. The walls were covered in chipped blue paint, the hardwood floors creaked with every step, and clothes, beer cans and solo cups were strewn haphazardly around the area. He takes a breath, and has to try his best to keep himself from gagging and throwing up at the smell. Larsen laughs, loud and boisterous.  “Party, or as Shits calls them, ‘Kegster’,” he says, like that explained anything and everything. “We were all too ‘shwasted. Jack locked the door, but forgot the windows. The shits across the street decided that they would finally pay us back for our compost job a while back. At least we were environmentally friendly.

“Take a seat somewhere if you want, just avoid the seafood and the couch. That was nasty even before this mess.” Kent remains standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching as Larsen moves, kicking clams into a pile and grabbing hanging seaweed from the cabinet hardware and the light fixtures. Left to himself, Kent realised didn’t really know what he was going to say to Jack. Maybe that he wished they were still playing together? That he thought he should be in the NHL rather than this dump? That he missed him and would give anything to play with him on NHL ice? That he wished he hadn’t overdosed and-

“Parse.”

Kent’s head whips around and he catches the hard stare coming from Jack’s blue eyes. He barely registers that there’s another student, one that’s whispering “Holy hell, is that Kent Parson?” from behind his moustache.

“Shits! Jack! What took you so long? Did you get the Febreze? I’m fucking dying.” Larsen pokes his head out of the kitchen in front of Kent, and nods at the bag Jack is holding. “Zimmermann, bring that bad boy here. Do you want your captain to die of fish fumes?”

Jack is still frozen, watching Kent. Moustache whispers something to Jack, who whispers something back, eyes not leaving Kent’s face. Moustache nods and takes the bag from Jack’s hands, throwing it at Larsen who catches it and disappears into the kitchen. Moustache leaves Jack’s side and moves towards the kitchen doorway, sticking out his hand in greeting. “Congrats on the win, man,” he says. “Shitty.”

“Excuse me?” says Kent, but shaking the offered hand all the same.

“That’s my name, brah. I study Women's Gender and Sexuality and Political Science.”

“Oh. I’m Kent Parson. I play hockey.”

“Cool. Now if you’ll excuse me, my captain needs me.” He flounces past Kent into the kitchen, where Larsen is furiously ripping open packages of air fresheners while shoving smelt off the counter and muttering about the potential presence of leeches.  

Kent turns his attention back to Jack, who is still staring at him. He speaks first, hoping to break the silence between them. “So, can we go up to your room? The smell is making me sick.” Jack blinks a couple times, then nods stiffly, walking past Kent and up the stairs. Each step groans under the Quebecois’ weight, and the creaks follow him, sounding much like complaints about Kent’s appearance at Samwell. Kent trails behind with his hands in his pockets, taking in every aspect of the environment that Jack is living in. As he rounds the corner, he sees Jack talking in low tones with the player across the hall, the door hiding most of the other man. As Kent approaches, Jack turns into his room.

He is about to follow and pull the door shut behind him when the hidden player speaks. “Your position in his narrative was important, is important, and will always be important,” he says. “But you have your own story too. I hope you don’t forget that.”

Kent raises an eyebrow and ducks into Jacks room without acknowledging the strange words and closes the door behind him. Jack is sitting on his bed, staring.

“So, I’m guessing you live across from your goalie?”

“Yeah.”

The room goes quiet. Kent wants to fill it, wants to hear the friendly banter that would fill the space between him and Jack every time they were together before the overdose. There is so much he doesn’t know about this Jack. This Jack that goes to college, that plays in the NCAA, that no longer centres for Kent, that woke up in a hospital bed and hasn’t talked to him since. He has so many things he wants to ask.

_What are you studying?_

_How is the college life?_

_Are you doing well?_

_Are you eating okay?_

_You’re not on meds anymore right?_

_How was coaching Peewee?_

_How are you, Jack?_

_How are you?_

_Do you miss me?_

_I miss you. I-_

“Why did you even pick Samwell, Zimms?”

_Shit._

Kent mentally kicks himself as he watches Jack’s face close up and go carefully blank. Jack stands up and walks over to Kent, standing a metre away but using the advantage of a few inches to his full advantage.

“If you have nothing else to say, Kent, I suggest you leave,” he says. His accent has gotten stronger.

“Don’t you have anything to say to _me_ , Jack?” Kent asks. Now he’s starting to get angry, but he doesn’t really know whether it’s aimed at Jack or himself.

Jack’s eyes narrow and his shoulders tense. Jack’s body language had always spoken louder than his words. “What do you want me to say, _Parson_?”

Kent swears that he doesn’t flinch from the use of his last name. He throws up his hands in frustration. “I don’t know, maybe something like ‘I’m happy for you’? Or even just ‘Congratulations’? I don’t know Jack, can’t we just talk?”

 _It’s long overdue_ , he thinks.

The silence returns, and the tension hangs in the air. They were never like this before. They were Zimmermann and Parson. Zimms and Parse. Jack and Kenny. Jack and Kent. That’s what they were. That’s what Kent always thought they’d be.

Jack takes a deep breath, but the steel in his eyes doesn’t leave. “You know I don’t like to lie,” he says. 

Kent’s heart drops to his feet and an emotion he doesn’t know floods into the space that opens up. It’s not sadness, it’s not anger. He doesn't know what it is. The back of Kent’s brain is buzzing, and he feels a chill creeping up his spine.

“Fine. Enjoy Samwell, Zimmermann. ” He’ll take it as a victory that his voice doesn’t crack. Walking through the frat house and back to his rental car, he doesn’t look back. If this is what Jack wanted, he’d give it to him. 

The octopus has somehow ended up on the car’s windshield.

He peels it off, climbs into the car, and turns the ignition. No fluid comes out when he tries to clean the suction cup marks and the slime off the windshield. Kent breathes. It’s shaky. His hands are shaking too. Resting his forehead on the steering wheel, he forces himself to breathe until he feels them become full intakes of air instead of several little gasps.

Jack is at Samwell. Jack is playing hockey. Jack is alive.

Kent tells himself that that's all he needed to know. 

\------------

_“Hey Jack?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“I love you.”_

_“Kenny…”_

\------------

**NHL LATEST NEWS: Kent Parson named captain of the Las Vegas Aces.**

The Swallow: Sports Issue 165

Jack Zimmermann named SMH captain!

\-----------

**TRADE ALERT: Salary Cap Casualties - Schuyler (SEA), Levay (SEA), Spassov (SEA) traded to LVA for power-forward Bremner and a first round pick.**

Samwell University – Men’s Hockey Recruitment: Class of 2017

  * Larry Charleston
  * Jonathan Grant
  * Ollie O’Meara
  * Pacer Wicks
  * ~~Branden Worton~~      Eric Bittle ~~~~



\------------

Kent watches the presser from the back of the room, as the three former Schooners pull their new black and white jerseys over their heads and down around their shoulders. Pictures are taken, then two of them step off, letting the press grill them each individually. Spassov goes first, heavily-accented English coming out in short sentences as he talks about his excitement concerning his future with the Aces. His entire family of four, consisting of his wife and his twin girls, is moving to Las Vegas. Kent knows that Levay envies him, because his girlfriend will be staying in Seattle to continue working. Levay came as a surprise, a solid defenseman that did wonders for the Schooners during the season, but was traded all the same.

_That’s hockey, baby._

Schuyler steps onto the stage last. Dark hair sweeps upwards then falls into his eyes as his line of sight shifts back and forth between the many microphones being shoved in his face. Schuyler’s eyes settle on Kent at the back of the room. The player had left Seattle with no ties to anything but the team and the stadium. On the board, he wasn’t amazing. On tape, the man knew the ice and the positions of those on it like the back of his hand. Rowan Schuyler is a great player, and Kent could see it. The Schooners just hadn’t known what to do with him.

Someone in the room, most likely a new reporter, asks Schuyler a question, but pronounces his name wrong. The room rumbles with laughter as the young male reporter is corrected. “I know it’s weird, but I wasn’t the one who decided that S-c-h-u-y is pronounced like sky. Sorry about that.”

Kent smirks and Schuyler smiles back lopsidedly without drawing attention to who he is smiling at. The wonders of PR training at work are still fascinating to Kent.

“I’m truly excited to skate in Las Vegas, and will do my best this season with my new teammates,” concludes Schuyler, and the cameras go off one after the other. Kent turns around and leaves the room. Rowan Schuyler will be his new centre. He knows it.

The team goes out that night to welcome their new men. Kent finds himself between Provolov and Schuyler, the former drunk, the latter not so much.

“You not up for it?” Kent has to shout over the noise of the restaurant and the noise of almost the entire Las Vegas Aces roster.

Schuyler shakes his head and looks around at the other players. “No, I’m good. Don’t want to do anything stupid before the season starts.” As soon as these words leave Schuyler’s mouth, Kent is hit with the image of Jack. Jack the responsible one, who stuck vehemently to his diet plan. Jack, who never truly wanted to party. Jack, who never wanted to drink alcohol until he was goaded into it. Kent furrows his brows. He wants Schuyler on his line, but he doesn’t know if he can survive playing with a Jack 2.0 that would keep reminding him of the original.

That image is shattered though, as Schuyler’s smile turns towards him, devious. “Besides, if I got drunk too, who would gather all the blackmail material for chirping? Surely not you, captain, you’re supposed to be the good one." Kent can hear the air quotes around the last two words. "Therefore, the responsibility falls on me.”

Kent replies in monotone, still reigning in his emotions. “Just don’t get these boys in trouble with PR.”

The newest addition to the Aces laughs. “Aye, Aye, Captain Parson. You sure do run a tight ship down here in Las Vegas.” The two share a look, catching the dig at Schuyler’s former team, and Kent is smiling before he’s even aware of it. He clears his throat, and looking past Schuyler, he sees a group of girls laughing and giggling, trying to push one of their friends towards them.

"There's a group of girls interested over there if you're looking to pick up tonight."

Schuyler looks behind him and smiles at the girls, but when one of them moves forward he shakes his head apologetically and turns back to look at Kent.

"I'm not about that kind of thing with girls," he says. Kent looks at him, stares at him really, while Schuyler stares down at his drink. Pushing the possible implications of the words to the back of his mind, Kent returns to smiling instead.

“Welcome to the Aces, Schuyler. Call me Parse. Parson’s too long.”

Schuyler looks up and smiles back with a wink. “Call me Blue. Schuyler’s too confusing.”

Kent relaxes and laughs, wondering what the next few years will be like with Rowan “Blue” Schuyler on the ice with him.

~~\-------------~~

The Samwell Men's Hockey team gets eliminated in the semi-finals of the NCAA playoffs, one game after a player on their first line goes down with a concussion.

The Aces go all the way to conference finals, Kent and Blue leading the Aces in points. They lose to the Blackhawks in Game 7, double overtime, and he knows he’ll have to be the lone man going into the media scrum. It’s times like these where he hates being captain. Even after a loss like this, he’s the one who has to stand in front of the cameras and the microphones and the people when all the other guys get to hit the showers and cry in private. It isn’t fair at all, in his opinion.

He feels like crying, he really does. He refuses to do so on camera though. “I’m proud of the way we played during this game, during the series, and throughout the entire season. It would have been great to win, but we’ll be back stronger than ever next year,” he says, hoping that he had given the press enough to work with. Kent wants nothing more than to get away from the cameras as quickly as possible.

“There have been rumours about Jack Zimmermann attending prospect camps. What do you think of that?” The question catches Kent off guard and he hears himself laugh bitterly in his head. He has just lost a series, so of course his opinions on the game don’t matter anymore. All that mattered was a good soundbite about the good-old Zimmermann-Parson duo.

Kent looks directly at the person who asked the question, giving the most genuine answer he could muster given the circumstances. Besides, if Jack didn’t want to talk to him, at least like this, he could talk to Jack. “Zimms will be amazing, whether he’s playing in the NCAA or the NHL. I don’t think there’s a single player in the NHL who wouldn’t be excited if Jack Zimmermann came to play on major league ice.” With that, Kent turns and walks out from the crowd, not bothering to look up from the ground to see who was up next for the wringer.

A hand descends on his shoulder, and he looks up to see Blue. The other player’s eyes are red rimmed and wet as he says, “Take it easy, cap. We got your back.” Kent is grateful for his team, for his alternates, for Blue. He just wishes he could have let them hold the cup. As they leave the United Centre, Kent has his headphones jammed into his ears and music on full blast, only truly aware of the excessive volume when Blue complains from the seat beside him that the music is disturbing his sleep.

He doesn’t really care. He needs Chelsea Dagger out of his head immediately.

\-----------

_“Wanna go skating?”_

_“It’s the middle of summer, and the rinks are closed today.”_

_“I.. euh.. have one in the back?”_

_“You’re kidding.”_

_“I’m not.”_

_They play around on the ice for hours. Jack convinces Kent to do drills, Kent convinces Jack to do trick shots. And they skated away their summers._

\------------

Kent lands in Las Vegas a week before training camp to do media and PR. He had spent the summer in New York with his mom and his sister, working out and doing some PR with the local leagues and charities involving a lot of street hockey. Outside in the sun, the freckles across his nose had gotten more prominent.

Blue had come down from his home in London, Ontario, and had stayed for the first week of July, chirping Kent the whole time about the spots that spread across the bridge of his nose.

“What do you mean your birthday’s this week, Parse?” he’d said as they were making plans for the week. “I’m only here to see the fireworks. Canada Day wasn’t enough, man.” Blue had winked at Kent, and pulled a present from his luggage on the fourth of July.

Kent had gone up to London with Blue, hung out for a couple of days, and had then snuck up to Montreal to see the Zimmermanns when he knew Jack would be away at prospect camp. Both Bob and Alicia were happy to see him, he was sure of that, and he had dinner with them two nights in a row before returning home, once at a restaurant and once in their house. His timing was perfect, because it was Alicia and Bob who had driven him to the airport meaning to pick up Jack a few hours later.

The Las Vegas heat can be both suffocating and oddly comforting. He’s informed by PR that a few other Aces will be coming in to do some early PR, so he’s not completely surprised when he sees Hallmann and Blue walk out of the GM’s office and shake hands with the GM. They see Kent when they turn around and the door closes behind them. He _is_ surprised, however, by the awkward silence that descends in the hallway as Blue and Hallmann look at each other, then look at Kent.

“You guys didn’t get traded right?” he asks, worried that he was going to lose both his line-mate and one of his alternates at the same time.

Hallmann’s eyes flick to Schuyler before looking focusing on his captain. “I’m retiring,” he says. “Blue’s getting the A.” Schuyler waves a little, like he’s a child meeting Kent for the first time. He’s glancing at Kent through his eyelashes, which is actually quite difficult because Blue is almost 4 inches taller.

“They’re making the announcement tomorrow. My knee can’t take the strain anymore.” Hallmann walks up to Kent and pulls him into a hug. “You’ll always be my rookie, Parser,” he whispers. “And Bluer’s going to be a great support for you, you know it.” Kent wraps his arms around the older player, who would be turning 40 in December. As much as he knows Schuyler will be great in a leadership position, he will miss having the support of a veteran at his back. He will miss the nods of approval, the small sighs of resignation. Kent squeezes Hallmann one more time before pulling back and putting a large smile on his face.

“You ready to light it up, Blue? Get a cup? Be the best?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, Cap.”

\-----------

 **_Messagerie (14:23)_ ** _Nombre inconnu: Hey Jack._ _How are you?_

 **_Messagerie (14:23)_ ** _Nombre inconnu: I hope you’re doing well._

 **_Messagerie (14:24)_ ** _Nombre inconnu: I’m coming to Samwell this weekend. I heard your team’s holding a party._

 **_Messagerie (14:26)_ ** _Nombre inconnu: I’ll stop by before my game tomorrow._

 **_Messagerie (14:27)_ ** _Nombre inconnu: See you then, Jack._

_…_

**_Messages (11:30 pm)_ ** _Jack: Um, I think you have the wrong number._

_\----------_

Kent is happy that Jack is playing hockey, that he is attending prospect camps.

But that isn't enough anymore. This wasn’t the best hockey Jack could be playing. If Jack is playing hockey again and plans on coming to the NHL, why isn’t he playing with a better team, a better line? Jack could have transferred to a better-known hockey team, like the one at the University of North Dakota or even at the University of Michigan. Samwell had barely made it into NCAA playoffs the previous year, even with Jack as captain. This year may be his best season with Samwell so far, but if Jack centered for the Aces’ first line and Schuyler moved to the left wing, they could make it all the way without an issue. They could win the cup, together this time.

So Kent decides to go to Samwell the next time the season brings them to Providence to play the Falconers. Blue offers to go with him, but this is something Kent needed to do for himself. He gets a taxi down to Samwell. The frat is filled with people, and he sees the student who introduced himself as Shitty the last time he was here. Said student was sitting on the porch next to a large tub, advertising its contents.

“Hey, Shitty. Is Jack here?”

“Inside brah, he should be with Bit- Holy, Kent Parson, you’re here again?”

Kent laughs, a little nervous. “Yeah, heard the party was epic, so I decided to drop in. How goes your senior thesis? You’re doing Women's Gender and Sexuality and Political Science, right?”

Shitty looks shocked that Kent remembers what he studies, but Kent’s always had a good memory. (It makes things difficult when he actually wants to forget something.) They chat for a while before someone stumbles onto the porch asking for a refill of tub juice, so Shitty gets distracted and leaves Kent to his own devices. When he walks into the frat house, he sees Jack leaning over to talk to a small blonde boy. From watching games, he knows this is number 15, Bittle, but he didn’t know that he was actually that small. Bittle is obviously no taller than 5’7”, making him even smaller than Kent, and Kent is already considered small for a hockey player. The small right winger notices him first, and when Jack follows his line of sight, he freezes.

“Hey Zimms, did you miss me?” Kent starts towards Jack, but he doesn’t get far before he is noticed and quickly gets pulled aside for selfies and signatures. He takes another look at Jack, who is still staring, before losing himself in the crowd of camera phones, sharpies, and pieces of clothing. He thinks he gets a picture with Eric Bittle too, but he’s just another body that presses up to his. A small girl he recognizes as the Samwell manager challenges him to a round of flip cup. Kent hasn’t partied in a while, and so he gets thoroughly thrashed. He signs the girl’s statement confirming that she had, indeed, whooped his ass at a college drinking game, then excuses himself. He makes his way through the crowd, keeping his head low and trying to make it up the stairs. Yellow caution tape is blocking off the second floor, but he pulls off the lowest piece and he ducks underneath the rest of it.

The lights are on in Jack’s room. He knocks, and he waits. It’s a good two minutes before Jack opens the door, looking every bit as guarded as the last time Kent saw him. Kent closes the door and Jack moves to the bed and suddenly they are back where they were before. It doesn’t surprise Kent though, because they haven’t talked at all since.

“Do you know where you’re headed next year?”

Jack looks away, looks anywhere but at Kent.

“You have no clue?” Jack remains turned away.

“I mean… It could be Montreal, it could be L.A., okay? I don’t know,” he says, and just like the last time, Kent’s anger begins to grow. This was his career. His dream. Their dream. And Jack was tossing it all away. In Kent’s opinion, he’d wasted enough time.

“…What about Las Vegas?” he asks, walking closer to Jack until they’re face to face.

“I… I don’t know, okay?” They look at each other, and Jack is about to pull away when Kent goes against everything he planned, grabs Jack by the jaw, and crashes their lips together.

For a second, they settle into routine, with Jack’s arms coming around Kent’s lower back, and Kent’s hands holding the back of Jack’s neck, tangling his fingers into Jack’s hair. They break apart for a second to breathe and Jack begins to pull back. “Pars—”

Kent pulls him in again, going back in his mind to when they were 16, still in the minors, hanging out every summer at each other’s houses and spending every game on the ice together as a unit. For a few minutes, they are once again Zimmermann and Parson, Zimms and Parse, Jack and Kent. Kent had missed this. Maybe this would fix things between them, so they could play together once again. Maybe they could finally put this behind them, Jack could come to Las Vegas and play with Kent and Blue, and they’d have it all.

Jack pulls away, untangling himself from Kent.  “—Kenny, I can’t do this.”

Kent blinks. “…Jack, come on.”

“No, I— …” Kent moves closer to Jack, pulls at his shoulder again, but the taller man moves away. “…uh. Kenny—”

No matter how long Jack hasn’t talked to him, Kent can still read him, and this Jack is silently screaming at him that he couldn’t do this. It's the same fear he'd experienced just before the draft, the fear that had led him to overdose. (He’d been like this when Kent had told him he loved him too. Kent realises he's never asked whether Jack ever loved him back.) Kent is frustrated, because all he ever wanted was to play with Jack again, but Jack did nothing but shy away. “ —Zimms, just fucking stop thinking and listen to me. I’ll tell the GMs you’re on board and they can free up cap space. Then you can be done with this shitty team. You and me— ” He knows he’s taken this in the wrong direction when Jack furrows his brows and his voice drops.

“Get out.”

“—Jack.”

The Quebec native shakes his head and glares at Kent, like his very presence is poisoning the idyllic paradise he’s built for himself at Samwell. “You can’t—You don’t come to my fucking school unannounced—”

Kent thinks back to the texts he sent and the message he’d received in return from a stranger with Jack’s number. “Because you shut me out—!”

“—and corner me in my room,” Jack had let him in.

Why couldn’t Jack just see, that “I’m trying to help—”

“—And expect me to do whatever you want—”

Whatever he wanted? He thought that this was what _they_ wanted. “ **Fuck—** Jack!!

What do you want me to say? That I miss you?” Kent did miss him. Every day since the overdose. Every day, every hour, every second. “I miss you, okay?” He has to hold himself back from launching himself at Jack and shaking him by the shoulders.

“I miss you.”

Jack’s eyes narrow and he exhales quickly through his nose. “…You always say that.”

And he had meant it every single time. Kent had meant every single 'I miss you' he sent via text, through Skype, through voicemail. He had meant it every time he screamed into his pillow, every time he threw up when he dreamed about finding Jack on the floor of the hotel bathroom over and over again, every time he drank and cried himself to sleep. Kent laughs dryly. Apparently that didn’t come through.

“…Huh. Well, shit. Okay.” Kent is done with doing what he thought was getting Jack to where he wanted to be. He thinks back to what the weird goalie had said last time he was here, something about not forgetting his own narrative. Something along those lines. Maybe he’d be better off getting back to building that instead. “… You know what, Zimmermann? You think you’re too fucked up to care about? That you’re not good enough? Everyone already _knows_ what you are but it’s people like me who still _care_.” Kent sees Jack tell him to shut up, but he’s speaking too loudly to hear it.

The thing is, when Kent is nervous or when his emotions get the best of him, his words come out wrong. PR has been trying to change that. They haven’t succeeded.

_I know that you’re scared that everyone is going to think you’re worthless. Don’t worry. Just give it a few seasons and they’ll be reminded of how great you are, Jack. Trust me._

“You’re scared everyone else is going to find out you’re worthless, right? Oh, don’t worry. Just give it a few seasons, Jack. Trust me.”

_Damn it._

Jack looks visibly shaken, but manages to speak. “…G-Get out of my room.”

Kent bites the inside of his bottom lip and exhales through his nose. “Fine. Shut me out again.” He reaches down to retrieve his hat, which he didn’t even notice fall. He pulls out his phone, and texts the taxi driver who said he’d be waiting around the area.

“…And stay… Stay away from my team," adds Jack as Kent's hand closes around the doorknob.

“Why, you think I’ll tell them something?” _About you? About us? About what we used to be and what I thought we had? About what, Jack?_

 _“_ Leave, Parse.” Jack didn’t have to tell him again. Kent pulls the door open, about to step out angrily. What he doesn’t expect to see is a head of blond hair belonging to Eric Bittle. Lowering his raised eyebrows and schooling his face into media-trained neutrality, he clears his throat and walks coolly past the small player and towards the stairs.

“Hey, well,” he says as he puts his snapback on. “Call me if you reconsider or whatever. But good luck with the Falconers. I’m sure that’ll make your dad proud.” Kent knows Bob would be proud no matter where Jack went, so he was just telling the truth. How Jack decided to interpret it was up to him and his issues. This is no longer his business, if what just happened is any proof. The door of Jack’s room slams shut as Kent reaches the first step.

The party downstairs is still in full swing, oblivious to the dramatics that had just happened on the floor above. Kent takes off his snapback, as it made him more visible than not, and exits the frat. He walks down the sidewalk, away from the noise and the smell of alcohol, and pulls out his phone to check that the taxi is on its way. Amidst the multitude of twitter notifications, there's a text from about an hour ago.

 **Messages: (10:04 pm)** Blue:  _Hey, I see you’re having fun from all the tweets. But don’t party too hard, okay?  We need you out on the ice. Text me if you need anything._  

Kent quickly taps a reply as the taxi pulls up on the other side of the street. Looking both ways, he makes his way across the street, sending the text as he climbs into the car.

 **Messages: (11:17 pm)** _I’ll be back soon. Don’t wait up. Remember to order breakfast._

A reply comes almost immediately, like Blue had been waiting for his response since the minute the original text had been sent.

 **Messages: (11:18 pm)** Blue:  _Ordered already, cap. Ordered for you too. Come to my room for breakfast? This way I know whether or not I have to wake you up._

 **Messages: (11:18 pm)** _Okay_

 **Messages: (11:19 pm)** Blue:  _You alright?_

The question glares up at him from the screen. Kent fights the tears that begin welling up in his eyes and takes a deep breath, biting the inside of his lip. The exhale is shaky as the taxi leaves the Samwell Campus and Frat Row disappears into the distance. His thumbs hover over the screen while he looks out the window, the conversation with Jack still ringing in his head. 

_Leave, Parse._

_Okay, Jack. Okay._

Kent looks back at his phone and taps out a reply to Blue. He doesn't tell the truth, but he doesn't lie either. It's the best he can do. 

 **Messages: (11:24 pm)** _See you tomorrow morning._

Kent pulls up his contact list, scrolls down to the bottom to the space where Jack Zimmermann has been since he was sixteen, and deletes the information. 

**\---------**

**NHL BREAKING NEWS: NHL Realignment - Chicago Blackhawks moved to Eastern Conference, Metropolitan Division; New York Rangers and Islanders up to Atlantic.**

\---------

Kent adopts a cat.

Her eyes are hazel. Similar to Blue’s, Kent thinks.

When Blue sees her for the first time, he makes a joke about Kent naming her after himself.

So, Kit Purrson moves in and gets her own Instagram.

Blue laughs.

Kent does too.

\-----------

They lose in the final. They get so close, and they lose, again, to fucking Chicago. Kent takes off his helmet and looks up to the rafters, wondering where they had gone wrong as he watches the Blackhawks cheer and slam into the boards at their end of the ice. He skates into position at the front of the handshake line, and he feels a fist clenching the bottom of his sweater. Kent doesn’t even need to turn to know that it’s Blue, who has started to do this after every loss. No one on the team ever chirps him for it, but if anyone is looking for Schuyler after a loss, they know to look for Kent, to whom he will be attached.

“I’m sorry,” he hears Blue whisper. “If I had just won that face off, we could have had another chance.”

Kent knows that the cameras will be on the Blackhawks. He turns around and puts a hand on the back of Blue’s helmet and touches their visors together while pulling him close with his other hand. “Hockey's a team sport, Blue. You were great, and you know it.”

“Still...”

“We'll get them next year. Conference finals, Stanley Cup finals, Stanley Cup. Next year, Blue.”

“Aye, Aye, Captain.”

Most of the Aces shake hands with the Stanley Cup Champions, take a quick shower, and change, ready to go back to the hotel. Kent avoids press like the plague. The staff will be keeping people from taking footage, but soundbites are encouraged. PR will be mad at him, but he doesn’t care. No one wants him to say the wrong thing, and he always does. So he stays long in the shower, trying to wash away the feelings of inadequacy and disappointment. Schuyler steps out before him, and takes a backwards glance at Kent. Realising that his captain isn’t planning on talking to any press tonight, he grits his teeth and heads out to face them himself.

Kent watches him go, and thinks about just how great Blue has been as his alternate during the season. Hallmann had not made a wrong recommendation. Although younger than Kent, Blue balanced him out, and supported him not only on ice, but off of it as well. The person he texted the most apart from his family used to be Jack. Now it was Blue. He didn’t realise that had happened.

When he finally turns off the shower and steps into the locker room, the only person left in it is Blue, waiting in the stall across from his.

“Figured you would want some space. They’ve all headed back to the hotel. I’ve called a taxi. Take your time.” Schuyler’s eyes never leave his phone, and it hits Kent that he’s been in the shower for a lot longer than he thought he’d been. As he towels off and pulls on his clothes, Kent thinks. He thinks, he wonders, and he hypothesizes. Turning, he begins to speak, but Blue does as well.

“Hey-” They both stop, and stare at each other.

“You first,” says Kent.

“I wanted to ask if you wanted to come to my room to watch some bad movies or something. It usually helps.” Blue holds eye contact for a bit longer, then looks away as Kent remains silent, thoughtful.

“I think I’d like that.”

Schuyler’s head snaps up, and he smiles, too large for anyone that just lost the biggest game in his career. It makes the corner of Kent’s mouth tilt upwards as well, despite the circumstances.

“And Blue?”

“Yeah cap?”

“Call me Kent, Parse is too formal.”

Blue somehow smiles even wider. “Call me Rowan, I’ve always been more of a purple kind of guy.”

And although Kent feels like shit, he’s glad he’s building his own narrative or something like that.

\-----------

_“Jack, do you think you’ll ever come out?”_

_“… I don’t think I’d ever be ready.”_

_“Maybe after a cup win?”_

_“Maybe after 4.”_

_“What if that never happens?”_

_“Then I guess it’ll never happen.”_

\----------

He finds Eric Bittle’s twitter by accident. It pops up on his feed, the NHL having retweeted one of his tweets about Jack.

Kent reads all the tweets, making sure he’s not logged in so he doesn’t accidentally identify himself. As he reads, he’s conflicted. He watches Jack’s last two years of college through tweets of conversations, chirps, and numerous ‘This boy’s. The thing is, Kent knows how Jack works, and how easily Jack is influenced by those close to him. With Kent and the Océanic, Jack had become more outgoing at the expense of his self-confidence and his mental health. With Eric Bittle and Samwell, Jack is gentle, teasing, and relaxed. There was no doubt which one was better for him as a person. Kent understands that, but it isn’t any easier to swallow. As he reads the latest tweet, there is something else that he becomes sure of, but he wants to confirm this for himself.

This is what leads to Kent’s third and final visit to Samwell. He plans it all, then drops a text to Rowan, who has just returned to Las Vegas in preparation for training camp. The text asks the other player if he wants to go on a trip, for which the flight leaves in 4 hours. Kent does not get a reply, and is about to cancel the second ticket when his doorbell rings. Rowan is leaning on the wall as Kent opens the door, and is enjoying the last few weeks of summer in casual clothing. He has a packed bag slung over his shoulder, Aces snapback perched on his head. “Ready when you are,” he says, and Kent laughs.

It’s only when they are seated on the plane to Logan International Airport that Rowan asks where they are headed. Kent says Samwell, and Rowan hums in reply. His head drops down onto Kent’s shoulder and Kent can hear the music blaring through Blue’s earbuds. He pulls at the wire, making his face as disapproving as possible. Rowan laughs, not turning down the music, instead taking one side out and trying to fit it into Kent’s ear. He has almost succeeded when another passenger comes up to them and asks for a picture and an autograph. They settle down and Blue pulls away as Kent says, “Sure, who do I make it out to?”

They land after 5 hours, and Kent rents a car. Driving around Boston, they meet up with a few of the Bruins that are in the city, mostly those who have made a home for themselves in Boston. When they get to the hotel, the manager looks at the computer and clicks frantically, before telling the two men that due to a mistake in the system, they will have to share a room. Rowan laughs good-naturedly, telling the woman behind the desk that they don’t mind. “We’re used to sharing rooms, it’s all part of the job.”

He winks, and Kent laughs again. He’s been laughing a lot more lately.

They settle into the room, and when Kent comes out from a shower, Schuyler’s already burrowed in his blankets, watching highlights from the finals on his laptop and frowning in concentration. Kent walks by and closes the device, earning a “Hey, I was watching that!” from his line-mate.

“Well you shouldn’t be. Not now.”

Rowan sighs, and turns away from his laptop. “Let’s talk about something else then? Why are we here, Kent?”

The smaller player sits heavily on his own bed and sighs. “I want to go to Samwell. To, you know, see the sights. I’ve heard it’s pretty.” It was definitely a pretty campus, with the lake, the river, and the rink.

“Anything to do with the last time you went?” Kent didn’t know that Rowan remembered that.

“No. I just wanted to see it for myself. Maybe I could have gone there, you know?”

Rowan stares hard at him, and Kent knows that his reasons are being seen through, but Blue doesn’t push for answers. “If you say so. But I don’t know, man. Samwell’s Ivy League, and you’re dumb as shit.” A pillow from Kent’s bed bounces off of Rowan’s shoulder. “Now, do you want to watch more bad movies? I’ve got a couple new ones.”

Kent leaves his towel on his bed and climbs next to his teammate. “Worse than Cornado 3?”

Rowan smirks. “Cornado 4.”

They fall asleep to the sounds of people screaming that the corn devils were getting revenge for the change in fertilizers.

\------------

When they pull up to the frat house, Kent turns to Rowan. “Could you wait here? I’m just gonna be really quick.” The other player raises an eyebrow, but nods and pulls out his phone as Kent steps out of the car. He walks up to the door, and notices that someone has installed a doorbell. He presses it, and when the door opens, he’s greeted by a slew of words in a southern accent.

“Chowder, honey, did you forget your keys again, I swear, one of these days I will sew them into your Sharks hood- Oh. Hello.”

Kent can almost feel the chill that drops into Bittle’s voice when he notices just who is standing at the door.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

Bittle pauses, then in what can only be his southern hospitality taking over, he lets Kent in and offers him pie, an offer that Kent takes him up on. Left to his own devices with a piece of pie as Bittle goes back to rearranging the house kitchen, he looks around. He sees the pictures of the Samwell 2015 team on the bulletin board and the workout schedules written in Jack's handwriting underneath them. He can’t help but be a little jealous of both Jack and Jack’s former teammates.

“How was the pie?” Bittle is standing near the doorway of the kitchen now, looking at Kent a little apprehensively.

“Yeah, the pie was pretty good.” It was the best slice of pie that Kent had ever eaten. He'd taken a picture just so he could rub it in Rowan's face.

“You know Jack graduated, right?” asks Bittle. “So – er- Why? Are you here? Again?”

Kent hums as a vague response while scrolling through his phone’s photo gallery. “Wanna see his baby photos?”

Bittle splutters a bit and flushes, but asks again. “Why are you here?”

Kent stands, picks up his fork and his plate, and walks past Bittle to place them in the sink. He looks at the small student, taking in his blonde hair, the way his baseball tee strains a bit at the shoulders but hangs loose at his waist, and his nicely fitted jeans. In two years, the person in front of him had taken Jack and rebuilt him, something Kent couldn’t have done no matter how hard he would have tried. Bittle’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out to check who it is. His faces softens into a smile, one that had once appeared on Kent’s face when he had looked at the person most likely to have sent Bittle that text. Bittle glances up from his phone to peek at Kent, and his hands hover over the screen while he bites his lip.

Kent's seen all that he needs to see.

Jack is dating Eric Bittle.

He's gotten the answer he came to get, and surprisingly, he’s not upset like he expected to be. A little hurt and a little sad, but he seems to have come to terms with something within himself, the something that had made him hold on to a love he never would have had. He walks up to Bittle, and holds his hand out for a fist bump. The Samwell student eyes it warily, but slowly releases one of his hands from the death grip on his phone to touch his knuckles to Kent’s. They pull back, and Kent nods his head quickly at the phone before walking out of the kitchen, patting the other man’s shoulder as he passes him.

“Thanks Bittle,” he says, and he exits the house. He hopes Bittle understands that he’s thanking him for more than just the pie.

Rowan is waiting for him, when he descends the porch steps. He's gotten out of the car and is leaning against the side, nose buried in his phone. His eyes flick up at Kent, and follow him until they’re in front of each other. “I’m done,” Kent says.

“You good?” Blue asks.

“I’m good,” Kent replies, and he’s finally telling the truth. “Let’s get back to Vegas.”

Blue lowers his phone, and puts it in his back pocket. “We’ll kick Falconer ass this year, you know,” he says slowly. So much more is loaded into that sentence, bits of concern and unasked questions, but Kent already has the perfect response. 

“We'll kick everyone’s ass.” Kent smiles wickedly. “Let’s get that Cup, Bluer.”

Rowan rolls his eyes, but he's smiling as Kent walks around to the driver's seat. They have a flight to catch and hockey to play.

\----------

 **Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease 

Sometimes things happen, and all you can do is wonder why. (I think it was a good thing? I'm still confused don't ask me) #weird 

 

\----------

_"Are you ready for tomorrow?”_

_“... Uh... Of course.”_

_“You’re gonna be great with the Aces, Jack. See you tomorrow, okay?”_

_“Bye Kenny.”_

_..._

_Kent spends the morning of Draft Day pounding on doors, making frantic phone calls, and trying to erase the image of the hotel's bathroom from his memory._

\----------

They’re sitting quite comfortably on Rowan’s couch, leaning on each other while watching the Eastern Conference Finals, when Kent brings it up. “If we win the Cup, I’m coming out.”

Rowan looks up at him from his place on his shoulder. He doesn't look surprised. Rowan turns his attention back to the game, and Kent lets out an inward sigh of relief. He startles though, when Rowan speaks. “Okay. So me too then, I guess, right?”

“Wait, you-" Kent thinks back to that night in the bar, that first night after Rowan had officially become part of the Aces. "Okay, I figured you were, but you can take your time with this, you know.”

“So you’re going to say you’re dating a random?” asks Rowan, feigning hurt.

“Of course not, I'm not even dating right now-" Kent stops mid-sentence and pulls back, in shock at what the words imply. "Wait are we- Fuck, are you asking- Did you just- Rowan, what-” Rowan slaps a hand over Kent’s mouth to stop him from stammering.

“I won’t stand for lying, Kent Parson. I’m too good to be anyone’s secret.”

It's quiet, until Kent decides to lick the palm that is still over his mouth. Rowan squawks in disgust. “You’re such a child,” he says, wiping his hand on the blond's shirt. Kent sticks out his tongue, and tries to reach Rowan’s hand again. They wrestle for a bit, and Kent ends up on top of the taller player, lying flat on his stomach. They spend the next couple of minutes enjoying the private moment as the game continues in the background. Rowan pokes at the top of Kent's nose, where the freckles that come out with the summer sun are starting to become visible again, then drapes both of his forearms across Kent's back.

It’s Kent who speaks first, pinned between Rowan's arms and chest. He breaks the silence, trying out a new name for his new partner. “Babe—”

Rowan looks up, and Kent feels the movement under him as Rowan's shoulders lift off the couch. "Hm? What, am I not good enough for you? You're the one who licked my hand, which was rude by the way, so I think I'm the catch here.”

Kent looks at him incredulously. “You’re absolutely ridiculous, you know that right?” he says as his boyfriend tries to shrug.

_I have a boyfriend._

_While I'm playing in the NHL._

_And we're both in the NHL._

_Boyfriend._

_In the NHL._

_Huh._

“But seriously, are you sure? You’re going to get so much shit,” says Kent.

Rowan raises an eyebrow. “Well, so will you.”

“Will you be able to handle it? I mean, there’ll be so much media and the fans and the heckling and-”

Kent feels the rise and fall of Rowan’s chest as he breathes in deeply. “Kent, I’m a hockey player, with the same amount of media training as you. I’m me, Kent.” Rowan pauses, as if he’s unsure whether or not the next of couple words should be said. “I'm not Zimmermann,” he whispers.

The blond startles and freezes. Immediately, the hold around him relaxes, allowing him to get up and leave if he wants to. Given the situation, the Kent from before would get up, walk away, and pretend nothing ever happened. 

But he takes another look at Rowan’s hazel eyes, brown hair, and disgusting playoff beard; he thinks about the past three years, about how he's the happiest he's been since 2009, and he makes a decision. He moves his hands to grab Rowan's arms and puts them them back across his lower back. Kent relaxes again once he feels the gentle pressure of Rowan pulling him closer. He allows himself to take a deep breath, and it's steady. No more short gasps. He can finally breathe. 

Kent smiles. “Of course you’re not,” he says. “Jack's not mine anymore.” (He says that more to himself than to Rowan) “But you are.”

And the horn sounds on TV as they lean in for what will be the first kiss of many. 

They don’t find out that they are going to play the Pens until the next morning, when Kent looks at his notifications after he takes a picture of Rowan cuddling with his stuffed beanbag snake.

\----------

The home crowd counts down with the announcers. 

“3!… 2!… 1!… Ladies and Gentlemen, the Las Vegas Aces have won the Stanley Cup!”

Kent throws off his gloves and rips off his helmet. He has to fight his way through the sea of black and white jerseys before he finds the face of the one he is looking for.

“We did it, baby!” he screams.

Rowan laughs loudly, and then they’re kissing on ice, in front of their teammates, their fans, and the entire world. The entire stadium goes quiet, until they break apart and rest their foreheads together.

And the stands erupt in the loudest cheers Kent has ever heard.

When he watches Rowan receive the Conn Smythe he almost cries. When he takes the cup from Bettman and swings it up over his head for the second time in his career, he fights to keep the tears in. After he passes the cup off to Marinkovich, a veteran player, he skates straight to Rowan and buries his face into his shoulder, holding him as tight as he possibly can. Crying on camera will never be his thing. Hockey hugs on the other hand, especially ones with your boyfriend, are the best hugs.

\------------

**NHL BREAKING NEWS: Kent Parson and Rowan Schuyler Come Out as Champions, in More Ways than One.**

\------------

 **Messages: (11:18 pm)**  Private Number: Congratulations, Kent.

 **Messages: (1: 30 am)** Thank you, Jack.

...

[Would you like to add this number to your contacts?]

 

[Yes]

\------------

 **From:** Maria Leclair

 **Re: Final plans for Kent Parson and Rowan Schuyler You Can Play Feature.** _  
_

Hello,

Both Kent Parson and Rowan Schuyler have revised their lines as necessary. Note the players' additions after "one community, one family."

Filming should happen in the next week or so. 

Thanks, 

M. Leclair

Manager of Public Relations

Las Vegas Aces 

 --------

[Fade In]

[Play footage of 2016 Stanley Cup Finals: “And the Las Vegas Aces…”]

[Cut to KP Intro]

 **_KP:_ ** _“I’m Kent Parson, Captain of the Las Vegas Aces.”_

[Play footage of KP Goal and Celly]

[Cut to RS Intro]

 **_RS:_ ** _“And I’m Rowan Schuyler, Alternate Captain of the Las Vegas Aces.”_

[Play footage of RS Goal and Celly]

[Cut to KP and RS together]

 **_KP:_** _“_ _W_ _e’re here to support all our fellow athletes, coaches, staff members, and fans.”_

 **_RS:_ ** _“It’s all about respect. Respecting the game, and respecting all those who love the game.”_

 **_KP:_ ** _“Judge us on our game, our style, our ability.”_

 **_RS:_ ** _“But not by our sexuality or our gender orientation.”_

[Play Aces Game footage]

 **_KP: (Voice-over)_ ** _Everyone plays together, and everyone supports each other, on-ice and off._

 **_RS: (Voice-over)_ ** _It doesn’t matter who you are, where you’re from, or what others may say about you._

[Cut to Aces Team footage: taking photo as SC Champs]

 **_KP: (Voice-over)  "_** _We_ _’ve got each other’s backs."_

 **_RS: (Voice-over) "_** _We’re one team, one organisation, one community, one family."_

[Play Aces Game footage]

 **_RS: (Voice-over)_ ** _"We play hockey, and we plan on continuing to do so."_

[Cut to footage – Post-SC win celly]

 **_KP: (Voice-over)_  ** " _We’re also dating, and we plan to continue doing that too."_

[KP and RS Outro – Indiv. Cut as needed]

 **_RS:_** _"_ _I’m Rowan Schuyler. Alternate Captain of the Las Vegas Aces, Stanley Cup Champion."_

 **_KP:_** _"_ _I’m Kent Parson. Captain of the Las Vegas Aces, Two-time Stanley Cup Champion."_

 **_RS:_** _"_ _If you can play, you can play."_

 **_KP:_   **" _If you can play, you can play."_

[Cut to duo shot]

 **_BOTH TOGETHER [Look directly at camera]:_  ** _"_ _If we can play, you can play."_

[Cut to You Can Play Logo, LVA logo ending card]

[End Video: Fade]

\-------------

Kent is surprised when he gets a text from Jack early in the morning, asking if he wants to get some lunch once he arrives in Las Vegas for the NHL awards. _Bringing a plus one though,_ he texts back.

 _That’s fine,_ Jack answers. _So am I._

They arrange the time and place, and soon Kent is waking Rowan up for their jog and putting out food for Kit. They spend their morning lazily, enjoying the off-season for as long as they can. They change when there’s an hour left before the arranged time, gently hip checking each other out of the way to gain access to the closet, the mirror, and the sink.

They end up arriving early and getting a table tucked away into a private spot in the restaurant, a perfectly inconspicuous spot for high-profile guests. The table is set for four. Kent stares at the table top as they sit down, realising that he's built his own story, his own narrative, and he's proud of where he's ended up, even if his relationship with Jack is not the one he'd hoped for in the past. He pulls out his phone to text Jack the location of their table, but a waiter is already walking him in. Kent and Rowan both slide out of their seats as Jack approaches with another person in tow. They arrive, and the two pairs are standing, facing each other, as the waiter walks away after telling them that he’ll be back soon with some water. If he's noticed that his guests are the only out players in the NHL, he doesn't make a big deal of it. Kent appreciates that.

“Hey Jack. This is my boyfriend, Rowan Schuyler.”

“Call me Blue.”

“Hello. I’m Jack Zimmermann. This is my boyfriend, Eric Bittle.”

“Please, call me Bitty.”

“Nice to meet you.”

 END

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you've made it through, I'm sorry for it being so long.
> 
> It's my first fic here, so if there's any advice or comments you can give me, that'd be wonderful. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


End file.
